


Hostage Negotiations

by Lokei



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: F/M, Rescue, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-23
Updated: 2007-06-23
Packaged: 2017-10-19 02:26:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lokei/pseuds/Lokei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur has left Lancelot in charge.  Lancelot prowls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hostage Negotiations

Lancelot scowled as he shouldered his way through the streets outside the garrison. Usually people were perfectly happy to get out of his way, and he took every opportunity to encourage that particular behavior, but for some reason there were more fools out trodding the cobblestones than usual. Or perhaps it just seemed that way, after coming back from an extended patrol with only the other knights and the occasional Woad raiding party for company. Certainly the walls always seemed closer every time he returned.

It didn’t help matters that Arthur had left him behind, either. Galahad had nearly lost a limb, and equally nearly his life in the last conflict and so Arthur had taken them all back to the garrison, given them a stern talking to, and ridden off with Gawain and Gaheris, presumably to let them work off some brotherly concern and anxiety on the heads of any unfortunate raiders they should encounter.

“I’m leaving you in charge, Lancelot,” Arthur had said, eyes serious and mouth even more so. “Do not let them get into trouble.”

By them, of course, Artorius had meant the other knights, who had a tendency to quarrel with the traditional Roman section of the garrison when one of their own had been killed or threatened. Frankly, Lancelot didn’t see how he was supposed to prevent that, short of locking either the knights or the Romans in the stables, and he wasn’t really willing to make the effort. He had, however, nodded when Arthur asked for his promise, so he felt honor bound to do something. Therefore, before storming out the gates, he had seen Bors companionably ensconced in the fair Vanora’s arms, Galahad well on his way to being under the table, and the rest of the knights under Tristan’s watchful eye.

Which meant the last likely troublemaker still at large was himself. As usual.

Lancelot was shouldering his way through the streets without any clear sense of purpose—he did not actually wish to cause trouble this evening, contrary to his typical fashion—the last few days had left him sick of blood and anger, sick of everything to do with this wretched country and the fools who fought over it. All he wanted was to get away, out as fast as he could as far as he could, which on a night like this was never going to be far enough.

The worst part of this plan, Lancelot soon found, was that the shortest way out of the town which grew up around the garrison was through the market. And seeing as market day was due to start in a measly eight or so hours, there were already a number of people gathered, mostly setting up shop, or at least claiming spaces and throwing their sleeping rolls down. Most of them were harmless—farmers, traders, a few out of town visitors without the coin to get a roof over their heads for the night—but in the corner directly in his path were the slavers.

They were hardly a rare sight in the lands of the vast Roman Empire, but Arthur wasn’t fond of them and always bid them take their trade elsewhere should he happen to see them heading his way. Lancelot had been more than happy to enforce Arthur’s suggestion at swordpoint for those who protested, which was an irony that curled his lips in a humorless snarl and brought an unaccustomed flush of embarrassment to the cheeks of the commander who preferred to forget that the men with whom he served were by no means there by choice.

Without Arthur there, however, Lancelot’s own words would carry little weight, no matter the emotion behind them, which was an uncomfortable realization in the darkness of the hour. Uncomfortable enough, in fact, to bring him up short among the ranks of the ‘merchandise’ and find himself staring at a girl—and find her staring back.

There was little doubt she was a Celt—whether she was technically a Woad or not mattered little when confronted with her challenging stare and the intricate knots of her hair. Gawain would like those. For that matter, so did Lancelot, though perhaps not for the same reason. She cocked her head and glared at him, moving as if she wanted to put her hands on her hips though they were bound in front of her.

Unsure what impulse drove him, Lancelot took a half-step closer. She spat at him. He stepped closer still, leaning his arm up above his head on the wall nearby.

“Now, was that really necessary?” He brushed nonchalantly at his leather jerkin, one eyebrow raised in annoyance.

“I recognize you,” she hissed in accented Latin.

“Oh? In general, women do find me memorable.”

“You killed my brother.” That was definitely a hiss, and not what he was expecting.

“It’s possible,” he crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall once more, “I kill a lot of people.”

“Am I supposed to be impressed?”

Lancelot shrugged. “Be whatever you like.” He turned to go.

“I would like to be free.”

That brought him up short, though he refrained from turning back. “Wouldn’t we all. Not in the dice, though, for either of us.”

She snorted. “You dare compare us?”

He whirled on her, eyes blazing in the darkness. “My people traded their honor and their children to the Romans in exchange for their lives. I walk these streets without chains on my feet but I am no more free than you.”

“You are right. I am more free than you. My people are still fighting. And so am I.”

Lancelot raised an eyebrow, opting for sarcasm over taking the insult to heart. “You’re clearly doing a good job of it.”

She leaned as close as her bonds would allow. “Help me.”

It was his turn to snort. “What?”

“Help me. The slavemaster’s found himself a willing companion for the night and there’s no one here will challenge one of Artorius’ knights.” He looked unconvinced, so she gave him a wicked smile. “Think of it as subverting Roman authority.”

He laughed shortly. “I have practice enough in that area.” He looked at her speculatively. “Still, I suppose I could be …persuaded.”

She licked her bottom lip and held out her bound hands. “Are you persuaded?”

Lancelot took her by the wrists, fingers wrapping around them firmly to hold her still. With a sudden movement, his knife sliced the leather straps that bound her to the other slaves in the pen. In another movement, equally swiftly, he lifted her free of the low enclosure and slung her over his shoulder.

They made it to the gate unchallenged, enough people in awe of his reputation and his closeness with Arthur to ensure that even carrying a Woad like a sack of grain, they gave him the wide berth he wanted. If Lancelot were in the mood to be honest, the fact that the hour had finally begun to thin the streets helped, too.

Of course, he was rarely honest. Not within the confines of Roman walls, anyway.

“Going somewhere, barbarian?”

And this was why his honesty was tried so often. He might hate the Romans with a passion but he wasn’t so blinded by it that he’d tell them what he thought of them to their face.

“Been a long patrol, Roman. A little evening recreation never goes amiss.”

“As long as that’s no decent Roman woman slung across your shoulders, we’re agreed,” the guard replied, torn between a sneer and a good-old-boy laugh. Rather a remarkable accomplishment, really, though it made him sound even more an idiot than usual.

“No decent Roman at all,” Lancelot tossed back as he strode out into the night, his burden pummeling his back and growling what he was sure were imprecations against his heritage in her own language.

As soon as they were under the treeline, away from view, he set her roughly down in response to her demands.

“Problem?” he asked sarcastically, his grip still firm on one bony wrist. “You are outside the walls.”

“Carried like some carcass,” she snarled. “I am not a hunting trophy.”

“No,” Lancelot said softly, a tiny smirk curling the edges of his lips as he ran his free hand along the line of her cheek. “Too much predator to be prey.”

“Neither,” she disagreed, tangling her own free hand in his hair. “Just free.”

The last word was nearly cut off as she tugged his mouth down to meet hers bruisingly. He made a wordless sound of agreement and traded his grip on her wrist for a better spot on her hip, pulling her down beside him on the ground and working his fingers beneath her shift.

* * * *

“Run north,” his lips moved against the spot he’d bruised earlier. “Past the wall, and keep going.” His fingers skittered in demonstration from her hip to her chin. “Keep fighting.”

“Just not you?” Her breath caught, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“Preferably. If you remember.”

Her hands pushed his away, straightened her shift, pulled her knotted hair away from her face. “You did say you were memorable.”

“I think the word I meant was ‘free.’”


End file.
